


episode

by lukegodbaby



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Blood, Henry has PTSD, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-10 01:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lukegodbaby/pseuds/lukegodbaby
Summary: anonymous on tumblr asked:  Scenario where Henry has a PTSD episode and his s/o tries to calm him down??? (Gender ambiguous reader please, You’re the only one I’ve found who does that.)





	episode

When push came to shove, you couldn’t identify what set Henry off. Was it the sight of his father’s gun? Was it Butch being home when he shouldn’t have been? Was it the guys, playing a little rougher than they usually did?

It didn’t matter much what did it, now that he was doing the thousand-yard stare out the car window.

You were the only one who seemed to notice that something was wrong. Well, Belch noticed, but he wasn’t doing anything.

When Belch dropped you off at your thankfully empty house, you insisted that Henry come with you.

Patrick laughed and said something about at least one of them getting lucky. You rolled your eyes.

“I’ll walk you home after, okay? Just. Please? For me?”

He looked at you like he’d never seen you before, but he got out and followed you all the same. You got him into your house, and he sat down carefully on the couch, putting his chin in one hand and staring at the floor.

You tentatively reached out and put a hand to his hair. He flinched away, and so did you.

You were so out of your depth, here.

“What do you need?” you asked.

“Fuck you. Don’t need anything.”

You sighed.

You tried to touch him again, and he scrambled away from you.

“If I can’t touch you, what can I do?” you asked.

“I don’t care,” he said.

“Yes, you do. Asshole.”

He smiled in spite of himself, a fleeting thing that for one moment lit his face with cold fire, then disappeared.

Your stomach grew tight, thinking about how that smile didn’t even barely reach his eyes.

You walked up to him and stood toe to toe with him. You reached out a hand — too fast, he flinched — then grabbed the front of his shirt.

This was the only way you knew how to comfort anyone — touch them, be there for them. But he didn’t want you touching his body. This would have to do.

He looked at you, his eyes dead. You sighed, looking back.

“Where are you?” you asked.

“I’m here,” he said.

You knew that he didn’t mean he was right there in front of you — he was somewhere of his own creation, somewhere meant for when times got tough.

“Can I help?”

He looked at you silently, and you realized he was shaking.

“Oh, _Henry_ ,” you said.

There was sadness in this, bone-deep. You wished his father was dead, and you wished that he would die. You wished it would be painful and you wanted it to be slow.

But you were just one person, and a young one, too. There was nothing you could do.

He slowly, so slowly you barely even realized he was doing it, leaned his head down. His forehead touched yours and you took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, and you watched him breathe.

“I’m so sorry,” you said.

He shrugged. “It’s nothing,” he replied.

“No, it’s not.”

He shrugged again.

You sighed.

“Can I touch you?” you asked.

Another shrug.

You slipped one hand onto the back of his neck, touch feather-light and scared. You were sure he would fall apart if you did the wrong thing. He flinched again as your hand came down on his skin, then he pushed back in the touch.

“How about we go lay on my bed?” you suggested. “We can just lay there and not do anything.”

“Okay,” he whispered.

The tiny sound of his voice stole your breath away. It was almost too much, to hear your boyfriend so small, so taken apart.

You held onto the bottom of his shirt as you lead him down the hall to your bedroom. When you got there, you took your shoes off. Then, you crawled onto your bed, and held out your arms.

Henry looked at you, eyes blank. Then, he got onto the bed and laid beside you, shoulder to shoulder.

If that’s what he needed, it’s what you wanted.

“Should we talk?” you asked.

“No.”

Well, that was something. More than a shrug, more than _I don’t know_.

You stared at the ceiling for a few minutes in silence before you rolled over to face him. His eyes were turned in your direction, but they didn’t see you.

“Henry,” you said.

“Hm?”

His eyes focused on yours.

“I’m so sorry, babe.”

He shrugged, and you tangled a hand again in the front of his shirt, resting the knuckles against his chest. He took a shaky breath, then laughed.

“’M a fucking drama queen,” he said.

“No, you’re not.”

You wanted to tell him it was completely okay, and understandable, and you believed he was completely allowed to fall apart. But he wouldn’t listen — that much you knew of him.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel good,” you said instead. “It’s okay.”

He shrugged, the movement slowed down by the bedspread.

“Feel like a fucking freak,” he said.

“Yeah. But you’re not.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Not to me. Never.”

“Thought you liked a freak in bed,” he said, letting out a shaky laugh.

You laughed, too.

“Well, I do,” you said.

“Cool.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“You want some love, baby?” he asked, his eyes starting to look more like the Henry you knew.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? Not good enough.”

“Yeah, I do. I want some love.”

He leaned over and gave you a shaky kiss, his breath dusting over your cheeks before your lips met for just the barest of moments.

“Don’t think I can right now,” he said, pulling back.

“That’s okay. I’ll get my kisses later,” you said.

“C’mere,” he said, holding his arms out to you. “C’mon.”

You crawled into his arms, into his feather light embrace. You put your head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around you.

He let out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“I know, babe.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You’re right. But I wish I knew how to help.”

“Me, too.”

So you laid together on your bed, silent, breathing each other in. It was all you could do, and you tried to do it well, wondering what you would do the next time he fell apart.

After a few hours, you walked him home, across town. You walked back alone, arms crossed.

One day, he’d be out of that house. One day, he’d never have to talk to Butch again if he didn’t want to. One day, it would be better.

Until then, all you could do was stand by him.

All you could do was hold him if he wanted that, and not if he didn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr at god--baby.tumblr.com


End file.
